Purkiss didn’t mention the memory stick he’d found at the back of Seppo’s drawer. He supposed they had the equipment and possibly even the skills to override its password protection, but he decided this was something he’d keep to himself for the time being.
The coloured lights of stationary police vehicles daubed the streets around the nightclub. Klavan’s and Teague’s flat was two blocks away. They parked in the basement and took the lift. Inside it was comfortably furnished, a home rather than merely a place to sleep.
‘How long have you been here?’
‘We set up a year ago when the date for the summit became known,’said Klavan. She handed him a mug of tea and although caffeine wasn’t what he needed now he took it gratefully, declining the offer of something to eat.
Teague threw a sheet and blanket on the couch. It was half-past two. They agreed on a seven a.m. start and Klavan and Teague disappeared. To separate rooms, Purkiss noted wryly.
He lay in the dark, feeling sleep and fatigue take gradual control. Rossiter didn’t trust him. Nor, clearly, did the other two. That was fine, because he didn’t trust any of them either.
His last thought before numbness overwhelmed him was of Claire, leaning on her elbows, supporting her frowning brow with her fingers and peering into a monitor, trying to solve some conundrum. He thought: If you were here to help me now…
But of course that wouldn’t make sense.
Beside him his wife slept deeply, untroubled. Venedikt squinted at the bedside clock: two-thirty. He needed sleep for what was to come, but knew he wouldn’t get it by forcing himself. Instead he rose, went into the living room, and turned on the television to a Russian-language twenty-four-hour news channel.
… will arrive in Tallinn tomorrow evening for a formal banquet…
… first official visit by a Russian premier since independence…
… historic signing of a friendship agreement…
The channel took great pride in what it called its political neutrality. Venedikt thought this a euphemism for cowardice, treacherousness even. Five years earlier he had been in the crowd protesting against the removal of the Bronze Soldier, the statue celebrating those like his grandfather who had fallen defending Estonia. Under cover of darkness the statue had been uprooted from its proud place in Tonismagi in the city centre and dumped in the wasteland of the Defence Forces Cemetery on the outskirts, along with the desecrated remains of Soviet heroes who were buried beneath it. Venedikt and his compatriots had vented their fury tirelessly, for two nights, during which one of their number had been shot dead, murdered, by the police. When he’d tried to explain to his son afterwards the importance of what had happened, the boy had shrugged and made to run outside. That had earned him a beating.
The ravaging of the statue was as nothing compared to what was planned for the day after tomorrow. The government had never admitted any intentional symbolism in the moving of the statue out of the city, even though nobody, not even those in favour of the act, had any illusions about why it was being done. But on October the thirteenth the Russian president was going to stand with his Estonian counterpart, the lickspittle of America and the West, and shake his hand, grinning, while behind them the memorial spire to the fallen of Mother Russia, not just those who died in the Great Patriotic War but all the others as well, was exploited for sickening political ends. The Estonian thinking was clear: not only are we going to extort apologies and craven concessions from you, we are going to do so in the shadow of one of your most treasured icons. Venedikt was not an especially imaginative man but he couldn’t fail to see the metaphorical significance of the limp handshake in front of the proud spire, the suggestion of emasculation it brought to mind.
There was nothing symbolic in what Venedikt and his people were going to do. Nothing ambiguous at all.
He switched off the television and went to stare out of the window. It was far too early for daybreak, but the night seemed to have shed some of its darkness, as though conceding grudgingly that its allotted time was passing once more. Two dawns left, and on the second the sun would rise on a very different city. A different world.
The day had been a perfect one and had ended perfectly, with the news about the Englishman. He couldn’t believe their luck. Nothing like this had even been considered when they’d first made their plans all those months earlier, yet the opportunity had fallen into their laps. Occurrences like this almost made Venedikt question his rejection of religious faith.
The excitement threatened to keep him further from sleep, so he went back to bed. In his mind he rehearsed the sequence of events over and over until it was smooth as a beach pebble.
Thirteen
Between finger and thumb Rossiter held up a SIM card.
‘Tracker. We exchange it for the one in her phone while we interrogate her.’
They were back in the office. Purkiss, not by inclination an early riser, had taken his time responding to Klavan’s gentle shake at seven. His eyes felt knotted and his neck and limbs ached as if he’d slept folded into a crate. Teague had gone out for coffee and hot rolls, and on his return he offered Purkiss a selection of his clothes. Purkiss chose loose ones for running in, chinos and a shirt that was a little big across the shoulders. In the shower he flexed and rolled, trying to work the tightness out of his muscles.
Teague and Klavan had been up early, working the Web and their phones. They’d achieved the breaks they’d wanted: they had the name of the woman in the nightclub, Lyuba Ilkun, as well as her home address. Teague had phoned the club and said he was a police officer investigating the two bogus detectives who had appeared the previous night and taken away the man suspected of leaving the body in the toilet cubicle.
‘That took some nerve,’ said Purkiss. ‘Hats off.’
Klavan had checked the name of the man in the toilet cubicle, Abram Zhilin, and discovered that he’d had a military career, six years’ service in the Ground Force, the Estonian equivalent of the Army, after his compulsory national service. She’d phoned a contact of hers in the Ground Force’s records office who promised to look up Zhilin’s file once he’d got into work.
Rossiter put the SIM card on the table. ‘Two of us do the snatch, two the interrogation.’ He looked at them in turn, pale eyes lingering on Purkiss. The anger was there still, livelier, as if sleep had rejuvenated it. ‘You and Chris do the grab. Elle’s an experienced interrogator, and a woman, which Ilkun will find disconcerting.’
Purkiss shook his head. ‘No use my grabbing her. She’d recognise me. It’s better not to let her know for sure who’s got her, even if she suspects.’
‘She wouldn’t recognise you if you took her without her seeing you. There are ways, you know, using hoods.’ Rossiter voice was thin, disparaging.
‘No. Besides, I have to meet someone.’
Even Klavan and Teague stared at him. Rossiter became very still.
‘Say again?’
‘An associate of mine’s arriving in the city this morning.’ He stood. ‘Oh, for goodness sake. I’m working with you but of course I’m not letting you in completely. I need insurance, some kind of backup in case things go wrong. You’d do the same.’
‘And when’s this… associate of yours expected?’
‘Late morning.’ Purkiss spread his palms. ‘You lot take the woman — I take it you can do it without my help — and I’ll meet you back here once you’ve got her and I’ve done my business.’
Rossiter’s eyes moved, calculating; then he said, ‘Fine. And if you’re late, you won’t mind if we start without you.’
Abby’s text had arrived just after eight, minutes after the sun had come up: I’m boarding now. See you half elevenish.